Infinite Monkeys
The monkeys (all infinity of them) sat in various poses around the room. Some were chewing their pencils. Some were lying on couches, gazing at the ceiling. One was endlessly bouncing a stress ball against the wall (much to the annoyance of a large number of the monkeys).
“Okay,” said the Lead Writer monkey. “Read back what we’ve got so far.”
The monkey at the end of the table peered down over his glasses at the sheet in the typewriter.
“Uhhh, okay. So far we’ve got this kid, Omlette, and he’s, uh, unhappy with his father, so he’s locked himself in his bedroom and he’s plotting something. We don’t know what yet, but it turns out his cousin, who’s secretly a woman, owes this lawyer some money. We’ve, uh, also got this scene we could work that Steve (thanks, Steve!) came up with, uh, involving this lemonade stand she tries to start up but ends up owing money to the mafia, and… uh. That’s it.”
“Really? Really, that’s it? That’s all we’ve come up with for ‘Omlette’?”
“Uh… looks, like it boss.”
“That’s terrible! What’s the time? How’s the deadline looking?”
“Uh, well, it’s been about… 56 million years, boss. And that, uh… that leaves us… about infinity years.”
“Infinity years?”
“Uh… yeah.”
“See? Ugh! We’re running behind!”
The Lead Writer monkey angrily punched the table, startling the monkey at the typewriter and waking a few who’d been surreptitiously napping on the infinite provided couches.
“WE’RE ON A DEADLINE HERE, PEOPLE! Uh, monkeys. We’re need to get this done! Come on, we’re some of the brightest and best monkeys in the business and we’re letting one dead guy’s old plays defeat us? Is that gonna happen?”
A few of the monkeys muttered in the negative.
“I said, IS THAT GONNA HAPPEN?”
The monkeys let out a half-hearted “No.”
“Right then,” said the Lead Writer Monkey, seemingly satisfied. “Throw out some ideas. Come on. Spitball ‘em. Let’s go.”
Silence.
“Nothing, guys? Come on. We’re the greatest monkey writers in the business!”
Silence.
“Uh, what about, right,” said Steve. “What about if… there’s, like, this romance, only it’s star cross’d an-“
“Done,” said the Lead Monkey, brusquely. “We did it in Chromeo and Oubliette.”
“Oh. Right.”
Silence again.
“Really? Nothing?”
Silence.
“Really. Infinite monkeys with infinite Creative Writing degrees and we have nothing.”
Silence.
“The best monkey minds and we’re stumped.”
Silence.
“Fine. FINE. FUCK IT. 15 minute smoke-break. Clear your heads.”
The monkeys burst into excited gibbering, half of them immediately heading for the door, bumming smokes off one another and arguing heatedly about bananas. The other half mooched into the rec area.
The Lead Monkey sat down at the table and glumly fumbled in his pocket for a banana.
“You… you alright, boss?” ventured the monkey at the typewriter, a little worried.
“Fine, I just… I just could’ve been a plumber, you know? My mother wanted… it’s…”
The Lead Monkey opened his mouth a few times, trying to find the words, before finally slumping into silence. He stared down at his banana.
The typewriter monkey, worried, unsure and with no idea of what to say, decided to keep quiet.
And that’s how they sat for the next 15 minutes.
